The Reluctant Tutor
by caughtinblackseyes
Summary: Castiel Allen is a married English teacher. Dean Winchester is the star football player who is failing his class. Rufus Turner is the coach who talks his friend Castiel into finding time to tutor Dean so he doesn't miss out on a scholarship. It's just too bad that Castiel and Dean can't stand each other.
1. Chapter 1

**This is my first Supernatural AU fic, so I hope you all will be gentle with me.**

**I own nothing having to do with Supernatural and make no money.**

**This is not beta'd, so please forgive any mistakes.**

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**Chapter One**

Castiel Allen, English teacher extraordinaire, rifled through the mound of papers on his desk muttering a weary sigh at just how bad some of them were. He was no softie when it came to education and he certainly played no favorites, so if you were dead-set on not paying attention or studying... well, basically you were pretty much screwed. From the look of things a handful of his students were going to be wailing and lamenting come Monday morning.

Castiel was of the opinion that his class wasn't tortuous by any means, but it wasn't a leisurely stroll through the park either. He wanted the kids who planted their asses in those chairs five days a week to_ think_. He supposed he was that rare teacher who encouraged his students to not just accept whatever they were being spoon-fed as the God-given gospel. What good did it do, shoveling the same re-hashed garbage into their receptive minds year after year? In his opinion, doing so didn't go a long way in promoting creativity or critical thinking; two components sorely lacking in the youth of today.

Picking up a particularly badly thought out _and_ badly written assignment, Castiel sighed once more. He just didn't get it. At the beginning of the year this kid had been doing pretty good; not great, mind you, but good enough to be passing the course. For the past few months Castiel had noticed a decided decline in not only his written work, but also in classroom participation. Not that Dean Winchester made a habit of participating much, but when called upon he frequently had a short, yet relatively decent answer or argument to make in support of his answer. Castiel could respect a good argument, basically because in his room they were so infrequent in nature, so when a real chance came along to exercise his mental muscles he jumped on that mother like a shot.

Glancing at the watch on his wrist, he uttered a low 'damn' before shuffling the papers between his hands in a haphazard fashion. Daphne was going to have his hide. He was late home last night and the meal she had so painstakingly prepared had been ruined. It had landed him on the couch for the night with a side-order of the silent treatment that had lasted well into this morning. He did not want to risk the couch, or its after effects, for a second night in a row.

He was just locking the door of his classroom when his friend and co-worker Rufus Turner called out to him from the end of the corridor. Castiel took in his track suit of blue and gold (school colors), whistle dangling by the string wrapped tightly around his finger and huffed out a small laugh when he saw that Rufus was still wearing his football cleats leaving thick, black scuff marks in his wake.

This man _had_ to be in possession of a pair of the biggest brass balls in existence because Ellen had informed him point blank that if she ever saw him wearing them inside the school again he'd need a doctor who specialized in rectal surgery to pry them out of his ass. Rufus either didn't take the principle's threat seriously, or he thrived on living dangerously. Castiel was putting his money on the latter.

"Thank all that's holy I caught you before you left," Rufus panted out, trying to catch his breath. Holding a hand to his chest, he wheezed, "Shit, I'm thinkin' maybe I should take up aerobics or somethin'."

Chuckling, Castiel said, "You haven't caught me, not really." Pocketing the key in his coat, Castiel grabbed the handle of his briefcase. "I have to make tracks now, or the only holy thing I'll be catching is _holy hell_."

Poking Castiel lightly in the chest, Rufus smirked while saying, "That right there is why I'm still livin' the happy single life. Don't hafta account to no one for my whereabouts and if I wanna hang with my buddies I won't be havin' to make the couch my home cause of it."

Castile snorted derisively while pushing the offending finger out of the way. It was actually quite extraordinary how frustratingly on the mark Rufus could be in regard to Castiel's marriage _and_ about the couch. The fact that his friend couldn't spare Daphne the time of day, and made no bones about his less than high regard, didn't endear him to his wife at all. The not liking definitely went both ways and had been a serious bone of contention between Castiel and Daphne for years now.

"I'm tellin' ya, boy it's high time you took the reins and broke that little filly in. Show her whose boss and all."

Cocking his head to the side, Castiel answered with a wry twist to his lips, "Marriage isn't about breaking anyone in _or_ about being solely in control. It's about compromise, my friend and you're just too damned stubborn to give any of that over to another person which is why you're still single and _still_ a sorry, sad sack of shit."

"Whatever," Rufus blithely blew him off with a brief wave of his hand. "Let's drop it cause this whole marriage business is startin' to make me nauseous." Smacking his lips together, Rufus went on to say with a grimace, "Matter of fact, think I just threw up in my mouth a little." Castiel shook his head as if to say, 'you poor shmuck'. "Now, as I was sayin'..."

"Walk with me," Castiel offered up instead, and was actually quite surprised when his friend did just that. Perhaps compromising was only crap when it came to marriage or the opposite sex.

Since Rufus generally practiced what he preached (even if it was sexist and straight out of the Dark Ages) it was no wonder that he and Ellen were constantly so at odds with each other. Castiel found their rather volatile dealings highly amusing, and more than once thought about encouraging the man to get his ass in gear and ask out their boss because clearly there was something going on there.

Throwing his arm around the younger man's shoulder, Rufus began, "Here's the deal. I got this kid and he's way talented, and not just in football either." Castiel nodded, reluctantly slowing his stride to match Rufus'.

The man seemed quite passionate about the subject, and when Rufus was passionate about something his comments were interspersed with wild hand gestures or dramatic pauses which led to this jarring continued start and stop of their journey toward the parking lot. Castiel's car had never seemed so far way.

"Problem is," Rufus tightened his hold round Castiel's neck; a silent signal that they were once again going to be hitting one of those halting pauses, "he's haven' some issues with a few of his classes." As predicted, they had now come to a full stop. Looking directly into Castiel's eyes, Rufus continued, "One of 'em happens to be yours."

Looking just as directly back, Castiel murmured quietly, "And?"

Rufus searched those disconcerting blue eyes, but all that lay in their depths was curious confusion. Heartened by this, Rufus continued, "If he flunks outta your class he won't be able to play sports anymore and there goes his chance at any sorta scholarship."

Immediately, Castiel shook off his friend's arm. Shooting the nervous looking black man in front of him a withering glare he turned, stepped off the sidewalk, and began stomping toward the few remaining cars in the lot.

"Castiel! Castiel!" Rufus called after him, but Castiel just kept on going, his over-long strides taking him to the side of his car at a record breaking speed.

Pulling his car keys from an inside pocket of his coat, Castiel shoved the correct key  
mercilessly into the lock turning it with a vicious twist of his wrist. He was just folding his body into the front seat of the car when Rufus reached him.

"Aw, man," Rufus panted, "Come on, I didn't mean..."

Yanking the door shut behind him, Castiel stuck his head out the partially open window and snapped, "I have a pretty good idea of what you meant, Rufus!"

The man in question ran a hand through his short, graying hair before saying in exasperation, "I'm just worried about this kid." Ignoring Castiel's snort of derision, Rufus continued, "Look, this kid's had it rough, and I don't know the details but just by his records alone!" Castiel's brow rose in astonishment. "Yeah, yeah," Rufus waved a dismissive hand, "I know I'm not one for reading files, but I gotta say in this instance I felt almost compelled."

Any temptation Castiel might have had to go ripping out of the lot – right over Rufus' foot if necessary – died a swift death. "You truly care about this student. This isn't just about your football team and maintaining its record."

Castiel was stating the obvious because as far as Rufus was concerned reading files was delving way too far into a student's personal life, and Rufus just didn't do personal. Castiel – who was beginning to acknowledge a certain amount of defeat in the face of this revelation – asked a desperate looking Coach Turner, "What did you have in mind?" Rufus opened his mouth, but Castiel hastily added, "I am _not_ just going to pass him. I don't care how many forlorn expressions you throw at me."

Rufus' head jerked back and with an affronted look demanded, "Forlorn? _Forlorn_?! Really?!" Shaking his head sadly, he went on to say, "Man, you really need to work on your vocab, man. Who the hell says forlorn nowadays?"

Running out of patience (and time) Castiel bit out, "Those who are not intellectually stymied."

Folding his arm across the partially open car window, Rufus ducked his head in and said with a smirk, "I'm just gonna assume that was an insult considerin' it's you throwin' it out there, and roll right along and ask if you think maybe you could tutorDean."

Tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, Castiel contemplated Rufus' suggestion. It was doable if he switched a few things around, and he didn't think Daphne would mind. Well, not too much anyway. If he worked it out that one of his tutoring days could be on a Monday while Daphne was enjoying her book club of the week meeting she'd probably go for it as it wouldn't take any time away from her. Then, there were Thursdays when his wife made a habit of dining with her family in Topeka; she'd be gone for hours.

Blowing a breath out through pursed lips, Castiel shot his friend a side-long look of amused affection before saying, "Okay." At Rufus' triumphant fist pump and muttered 'Yes!' Castiel warned him, "I'm not going to go easy on this kid. If he passes it's because he worked for it and no other reason. Anything other than that would be immoral and unethical, not to mention, in no way beneficial to him. Agreed?"

Grinning widely, Rufus let out an enthusiastic, "Hell, yeah!"

Chuckling, Castiel switched on the ignition while indulgently shaking his head from side-to-side at his friends' antics. He was just about to put the car in 'drive' when a hand was slapped forcefully against the planes of his chest. "Hold up, there's your new tutorial project now."

"Winchester!" Rufus called to a figure off in the distance standing by an impressive, and from what Castiel could tell from where he sat, well maintained vehicle. Beckoning with a wide sweep of his arm, the man continued, "Get your ass over here, boy!"

So, Dean Winchester was the one who had his friend in such a worried frenzy; Castiel should have known. This kid was popular, well thought of, and universally revered by teachers and students alike. Castiel supposed it helped that he was captain _and_ star player in just about every contact sport Lawrence High had to offer. It was ironic that Castiel himself had been doing his own fretting over the young man currently jogging at a leisurely pace in their direction.

"Hey, coach," Dean greeted Rufus with a small, but tired smile.

The kid's hair was damp and Castiel couldn't tell whether it was from the tough football work-out or from the showers. As he stepped closer, Castiel caught the distinct scent of soap and deodorant. The showers it was. The varsity jacket with the oversized 'L' clung to his wide shoulders and he wore it well, but without the snide inflated pride he'd seen most of Dean's team-mates flaunt their letters. No, his jacket looked at home; like it belonged right where it sat.

Clapping his hand down solidly on one of his key player's shoulder, Rufus said, "Mr. Allen here has agreed to tutor you."

Dean's gaze swiftly swiveled to Castiel, pinning him to his seat with a pair of intense green eyes and, whoa, he was one hell of a good looking kid. The fact that he hadn't noticed before wasn't surprising at all. Castiel was often so caught up his teaching he failed to notice anything non-related, and looks – gorgeous or otherwise – hadn't ever really been high up on the notice Richter scale. And, in his further defense, he did have to divide his attention up amongst numerous students, and other than this morning, Castiel had given very little thought to any specific one.

But, then again, Castiel took special pains to _not_ notice whether the students who graced his classroom were attractive. It was highly inappropriate, and he had no desire to walk the path of Alistair – a former teacher – who'd had several liaisons with his students. None of them had been under age per se, but it had still cost him his job. Therefore, whenever Castiel had chance to notice – in passing – the attractiveness of one of the young ladies he taught, he firmly pushed it into the category of appreciation of a purely aesthetic nature; like indulging in the pleasure of perusing fine art or a beautifully constructed Grecian statue.

"Oh," was the less than enthusiastic reply from the Adonis look-a-like, and it really pissed Castiel off because he didn't _have_ to help out a kid who was in danger of failing; he wasn't obligated or anything. His displeasure must have shown on his face because in the next instance, Dean was saying quietly, "Thanks, it's just I don't have a whole lotta spare time."

Brows deeply furrowed, Castiel snapped out, "Neither do I, Mr. Winchester, but I was willing to give up a few hours of _my_ valuable time in order to assist you. Believe me; I've got better things to do than try to talk a lazy kid – who clearly has no desire to improve himself – into a series of clearly unwanted tutorials. In fact, I'm already late for a very important appointment."

"Yeah," Rufus snickered, "for his wife's pot roast."

Rufus wasn't always the most astute of men but even he could sense the mounting tension. Maybe a bit of home-spun humor at his friends' expense would ease the atmosphere a bit.

Dean ignored his coach and transferred his gaze to the ground, shoulders hunching inward protectively, then he raised blazing eyes and stated fiercely, "I'm _not _lazy Mr. Allen and it isn't that I don't want to learn." Thrusting his hands into his pockets, he continued as a flush of red swept up his neck and settled on his sharply delineated, freckled-dusted cheekbones, "I have a job three days a week after practice and half the day on Saturdays so…"

And didn't that just make Castiel feel like the world's biggest horses ass. Here he'd gone hastily assuming that Dean was turning him down out of pure laziness and lack of motivation to improve his grade, which hadn't been the case at all. Yeah, definitely feeling like a horses ass.

"My apologies," Castiel stiffly answered. "I shouldn't have assumed that your hesitation to accept Coach Turner's efforts to secure my services stemmed from a reluctance to apply yourself to what is bound to be a series of long and arduous lessons."

Giving Castiel a perplexed look, Dean asked of an amused Rufus, "He always talk like that?"

"'Fraid so, but you'll get used to it," Rufus assured the dubious looking Dean. "After a bit, you'll even think it's kinda cute."

"Rufus!" Castiel admonished, outraged at his friend's show of familiarity (and in essence disrespect) in front of a student. It didn't help his mood at all when he noticed the student in question trying to hide the upward quirk of his lips, and failing miserably.

"Besides, you should be used to his ancient ways of speakin' cause you're stuck in his class listening to him drone on, and on, _and_ on," Rufus reminded his star quarterback with a wink, pretending not to see the dagger-like glare being shot his way by Castiel.

Shrugging his shoulders, Dean admitted with a sheepish grin, "I'm not always really listening."

Rufus threw is head back and let out a raucous laugh while Castiel snapped out an irate, "Which would explain your abysmal grade, young man!" Castiel gripped the steering wheel until his knuckles showed white. He was seriously displeased, and not at all certain that he wanted to tutor someone who so readily admitted to blatant inattentiveness. "This was a monumental mistake," Castiel bit out between clenched teeth.

"Now don't go gettin' your britches in a twist," Rufus commanded good-naturedly, not _completely_ oblivious to his friend's simmering ire. "I'm sure Dean here will give you his undivided attention once y'all are one-on-one."

The shrill ringing of Castiel's cell phone interrupted whatever Rufus and whatever more asinine drivel he'd been about to spout for Castiel's benefit in the hopes of getting his own way.

"Damn it all to hell," he exclaimed as he fumbled through the deep, inner breast pocket of his coat. It was Daphne. It had to be.

"That Daffy," Rufus asked as Castiel finally managed to pull his cell from the cavernous hole. "When you gonna get rid of that fugly thing?" For a split second Castiel wasn't at all certain if Rufus meant his wife, his phone, or his coat which certainly spoke volumes of his rattled state of mind. "You've had that mangy trench since high school, man. Don't ya think it's time to cut the apron strings?"

With a huff of annoyance, Castiel flipped open the face of his phone, put it his ear, and with a marked change in both tone and demeanor said, "Hello, Daphne."

"I kinda like it," Dean piped up from beside his coach causing Castiel to jerk his head to the side and pin the young man to that very spot with a puzzled frown. The kid shifted around uncomfortably, toeing the black macadam with his boot before saying bashfully, "You sorta remind me of Constantine when you're wearin' it."

Castiel is only half listening now as Daphne continues to reprimand him for his tardiness… _again. _"The Roman Emperor," he queries in confusion as his frown deepens further.

Rufus snorts and his star player merely looks at Castiel with utter astonishment written all over his remarkable face, before asking aghast, "You don't know who _Constantine_ is?" Looking as if Castiel were the saddest thing to have walked this Earth, he muttered, "Man, oh man, you are way uneducated, dude."

Baffled by this kid's bizarre behavior, Castiel used a hand to cover the cell (Daphne was _still_ ranting) before stating with snide condescension, "I'll have you know that I have been extensively, meticulously, and propitiously _educated_." Dean shrugged his shoulders, looking highly unimpressed pissing Castiel off in ways he hadn't felt in _years_. Bodily harm flitted fleetingly through his head, but he squashed it down and instead retorted, "I have matriculated and have graced the hallowed halls of many esteemed establishments of higher learning!"

Rufus groaned out loud when Dean shot back with a sneer, "Brag much?"

_That_ was it! "I'll call you back," he snarled into the phone, snapping it shut with a graceful flick of his wrist. Wrestling for the handle of the door, Castiel flung it open nearly hitting Rufus in the process, but he was far from giving a shit.

Dean took a steady step back, straightened up his frame to its maximum height of 6'1, and raised his fists fully prepared to defend himself if necessary. Rufus watched in fascinated horror as his ordinarily tractable friend vaulted from his car and charged over to where Dean stood stone-faced and battle-ready.

"Put your fists down, young man!" Castiel directed furiously. "I refuse to engage in a physical confrontation with a student, and your threatening stance and manner are deserving of a severe reprimand which, by the way, will go on your permanent record!"

Dean sullenly did as he was told, but his shoulders remained taut and his face retained a grim determination that would have intimidated most folks with its fierceness. Not Castile though. He moved in far closer into Dean's personal space than was comfortable for both Dean and his coach, and exclaimed forcefully, "I will _not_ put up with that sort of discourtesy. If I am to tutor you, you will accord me the respect that my position is due. Are we clear on that, young man?" When Dean kept up his stoic silence, Castiel bit out a thunderous, "Well?!"

Shoulders shaking with repressed rage, Dean answered with reluctant and exaggerated respect (as requested), "Yes, _sir_."

Castiel either didn't notice the insincerity or he was just plain fed up with the whole confrontation because all he did was spare his watch a brief glance, heaved a huge sigh, and said in a tired and solemn voice, "Good. Now, I really have to be on my way. See me after class on Monday so that we can synchronize our schedules."

Dean said nothing, just turned on his heels and briskly stalked back to his car. Castiel's shoulders slumped. He _really_ hated confrontation and was now left with a sensation of dissatisfaction and exhaustion with a smidge of disorientation. Groaning, he recalled that he still had Daphne to contend with when he got home. Oh joy, he thought derisively. The fact that he'd hung up on his wife mid-harangue was, without a doubt, going to land him in the doghouse. His pillow and blanket were probably already neatly stacked on the couch. No doubt she would subject him to another bout of the silent treatment as well, and while he felt momentarily bad for thinking it: At this point it would be a welcome blessing!

"Hey," Castiel felt himself pushed from behind, "what the fuck was that?!"

Castiel veered around Rufus reaching for the handle of his car door, and huffed out impatiently, "I have agreed to tutor your fat-head, disagreeable brat. Therefore, I would appreciate it, immensely, if you would refrain from giving me further grief."

So saying, Castiel slid into his car, turned the key, put it in gear, and drove away while Rufus contemplated the back fender of the rapidly disappearing vehicle completely gobsmacked.

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**Reviews are always quite thrilling to get!**


	2. Chapter 2

**This chapter has not been beta'd so please forgive any mistakes. I own nothing having to do with Supernatural amd make no money.**

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**The Reluctant Tutor**

Chapter Two

Castiel punched his pillow in an attempt to make a more comfortable space for his head. A pointless endeavor because no matter how much he attempted to turn, flip, punch or squish its dimensions into submission, the damn thing just wouldn't cooperate. To be fair, the pillow was only partially to blame because, while the couch was stunning in appearance, it was seriously lacking in support and comfort. His lumbar region was going to be screaming in protest come Saturday morning having suffered through _two_ consecutive nights of torture. Sighing, Castiel shifted onto his back throwing a forearm over his eyes. When, he wondered had his life degenerated into sleepless nights on the couch and alternating silent sprees from his wife? He was well aware that he'd be in for it big time, but he hadn't been prepared for _how _big.

**FLASH BACK**

Castiel's strangulation hold on the car's steering wheel didn't let up until he was almost three blocks from his home. He hadn't even had the presence of mind to slip in one of the classical CD's he normally listened to as a form of relaxation after a particularly trying day. It shamed him to admit it, but that kid had really gotten to him; touching something primitive in him that he hadn't felt in ages.

Moving his shoulders back and forth in an effort to force the tense muscles to unwind, Castiel couldn't help but reflect back on those startling green eyes. Their color – though extraordinary – had held a wealth of discontent and rebelliousness that had rubbed Castiel the wrong way making him want to put the little bastard firmly in his place. The fact that the kid had the actual balls to raise his fists at him had made it worse because if there was something Castiel couldn't abide it was violence.

It was really quite a shame that all that masculine beauty came housed in the fit form of an idiotic bully. Technically, Castiel should report him for his outrageous and totally unacceptable behavior, but he had no desire to worsen the situation. Besides, no actual physicality had been involved so any type of investigation – and the consequent black mark on the kid's record – would be pointless. Clearly this kid had enough strikes against him, and if he was going to tutor Rufus' prize player, then they'd have to start again with a clean slate. Castiel doubted reporting the kid would be of any help in establishing a workable partnership as tutor and tutored.

As he slowly maneuvered the car into the driveway, Castiel was surprised to note that the garage door wasn't its usual gaping, black welcome. Daphne had made a habit of taking it upon herself to make sure they stood wide and ready. Castiel had been girding himself for the inevitable unpleasantness that was bound to follow not only being late again but in hanging up on his wife mid harangue. Still, he hadn't been expecting this. To most, it wouldn't seem like a big deal, but Castiel was well aware of its silent significance.

Daphne wasn't one to make grand gestures therefore making the small ones took on a much deeper significance. Now, from the look of things, she wanted to leave him in no doubt that he was far from welcome in his own home. He parked as close to the garage door as he dared since he didn't have the hand-held automatic door opener. He hadn't needed it for some time, so it lay in the designated cubby on the _inside_ of the garage.

Setting his face into a mask of smooth blandness, Castiel snatched his briefcase from the passenger seat and climbed nimbly from the car. After placing the leather case on the asphalt, he proceeded to straighten the lapels of his trench coat; then pulled slightly on the blue knot at his throat in an effort to loosen its tight constriction.

A neat and well put together appearance was essential when it came to transmitting confidence and control and – as a teacher – absolutely necessary in sending out the unspoken message of 'I am in charge while you're in _my_ room and don't you forget it.' While at home he had no need for such armor and tended to relax in both dress and manner. Relaxing now was _beyond _out of the question. There was no denying the seep of anxiety that was beginning to settle in the pit of his stomach or the slippery sheen coating his palms.

Inhaling deeply, Castiel headed toward the front door of their Tudor-style home. They lived in the high-end part of Lawrence and – as a boy who'd come from the other side of the tracks – Castiel never dreamed he'd be living in one of the very houses he would gawk at while walking to and from school. He would have been content with something a little less showy, but Daphne had insisted. Allowing her to choose their place of eventual residence had been one of the bargaining chips he'd thrown out there in order to convince her to move from London to his small home town.

Twisting the knob, he popped his head into the opening and called out a tentative, "Honey, I'm home." Cringing at the ridiculous banality, Castiel was mortified that he'd just come off sounding like some sort of idiotic character in a bad 50's sitcom. What the hell was he thinking? He never announced himself in such a fashion.

Generally, he just entered via the garage which had a door leading straight into the mud kitchen where he would then remove his shoes and hang up his coat. After which, he'd use the other door, and make his way into the kitchen where he'd place his briefcase on one of the marble-riddled counters then set about making himself a mug of strong coffee.

So, this change in his normal routine was almost as jarring as the silence which followed his rather lame attempt at a greeting. He hesitated in the doorway afraid to move onto the foyer while still in his shoes. The imported tiles from Italy were very delicate, and his wife had a definitive 'no footwear' rule for fear of marring them which was_ why_ he usually used the garage entrance.

This wasall really_ very_ aggravating. It was ridiculous the way he was hovering in the entrance of his home like he was some sort of recalcitrant little boy fearful of whatever punishment awaited him. He was _not_ a child and it would be a cold day in hell when he'd stand around here acting like one!

Straightening his world-weary shoulders, Castiel stomped into the foyer – tiles be damned! – with far more confidence than he was actually feeling. Swiveling his head as he passed the archway leading into the living room, he noted – as foretold by himself earlier – the pile of covers and pillows placed on one end of the couch.

While that hadn't been a surprise, what was is that Daphne had yet to make an appearance. Having been the one to have made sure he'd have to enter via the front door, he'd been relatively certain that she'd either be awaiting his arrival in the foyer or somewhat near it. This extreme oddity was explained the moment he walked into the kitchen. There, lying on the counter-top was a piece of pale purple stationary with five simple words written on it in Daphne's elegant script.

**Gone to Mummy and Daddy's.**

Yesterday, she'd been waiting for him in the kitchen sipping daintily from one of the hideously expensive tea cups some great aunt or other had bequeathed to them as a wedding gift. Since it was a family heirloom generations old, Daphne only ever used a piece or two of the set when stressed and needing the comfort of 'family.' Its presence in her hand had not boded well.

The slight aroma of beef Wellington which she'd, no doubt, spent a good portion of her day preparing had lingered in the air, but he'd seen no remnants of the meal. After relieving himself of his briefcase he'd started off with, "My apologies, Daphne." His words were greeted with silence. Then, she'd carefully placed the wafer thin china upon its equally fragile mate and finally met his eyes with a deceptively calm gaze. He tried again.

"I was so immersed in the reading and grading of several essays that I completely lost track of the time."

One of her finely arched brows had shot up. "Papers," she'd asked in angry, quiet dismay. "You are almost three hours late because of_ papers_?" Her voice had risen slightly on the last word.

"No," Castiel'd countered, "Ellen stopped by my classroom to discuss and ask my opinion on a few key points which will be on the agenda of our next staff meeting. It took much longer than anticipated."

Looking into the depths of her cup as if it held the answers to all of the world's greatest mysteries, before glancing back up, Daphne had asked casually, "Ellen… the principle?" At Castiel's affirmative nod, his wife continued waspishly, "You seem to be spending an inordinate amount of time with that woman."

"She's my boss," Castiel'd retorted in exasperation, "so, of course, when she asked me to stay and go over it with her I complied. What would have had me do?"

"_I_ would have had you at least do me the courtesy of telephoning me and apprising me of the situation," she'd shot back at him with a bitter twist to her lips. "As your wife, do I not deserve that sort of courtesy from you, Castiel?"

Castiel immediately dropped his frustrated demeanor because Daphne was right, he should have called and he'd had no viable excuse for not having done so. "Yes," he'd readily and remorsefully agreed. "It was totally remiss of me, darling and I can do nothing other than apologize for my lapse in good manners."

At the clear sincerity on his contrite face, her expression had softened slightly and it'd given him hope that all was absolved and that their disagreement was at an end. Her next words however dispelled that notion.

"I would prefer not to share a bed with you this evening. I've set your bedding and night clothes on the couch."

Castiel had no choice but to give in gracefully knowing to do anything else would have been pointless and had answered in a resigned manner, "As you wish."

**END FLASHBACK**

Huffing in aggravation, Castiel flopped over onto his stomach. He had so wanted to approach her. To take her into his arms and kiss away her frown of disappointment, and make things better between them; to suggest that they talk out their problems because lately they'd been legion. But, he'd attempted none of these things because she was radiating a coldness he recognized all too well. The silent treatment had followed their last exchange of words and Castiel had borne it because until she was ready, nothing he'd have said or done would've made a difference.

While their relationship had been fraught with difficulties relatively right from the start, they'd been able to vault over those hurdles with nary a skinned knee to show for it. She'd been the pursuer and he'd happily let himself be pursued although he'd been a bit surprised and slightly put off by her initial attentions. Grinning to himself, Castiel recalled just how adverse he'd been to Daphne's determined efforts to snag him come hell or high water, and he suspected that his baffled rebuffs had only made her more determined to have him.

He'd been about a year younger than the majority of students attending Oxford, so he'd already been feeling slightly anxious and out of place. He'd also always been a rather retiring soul, the not knowing _anyone_ only made him more so. Because he was quite backward in his ways, he'd found it nearly impossible to forge satisfying friendships; being American hadn't helped his case either. His first few months at Oxford, he'd been a stranger, all by himself, alone in a foreign land.

Then, he'd found Daphne – or rather she'd found him – and in Daphne he'd found not only his first – and basically only – British friend but a fabulous lover as well. She had seen something in him and hadn't given up until she'd breached all of his defenses. After the initial trepidation of embarking on a romantic relationship had subsided, Castiel had fallen _hard_. She'd been bright, beautiful and charming as hell and the sex, when she'd finally gotten him to that point, had been amazing. Smiling ruefully, Castiel thought back on just how incredibly damned seductive the sex had been. But, much more important than the sex, he was no longer on his own or lonely. Castiel, in his naiveté, thought he'd stumbled upon Nirvana encased in the very appealing package of Daphne Adler.

Back home, in the States, he'd had few close friends and though they could be considered slim in number, they were also tried and true, supportive and reliable, and had seen him through some tough times. Rufus, Meg, and he had been likened to the Three Musketeers during their sojourn through the Lawrence School system and that hadn't changed even as their paths had diverged dramatically upon graduation.

Rufus had remained in Lawrence managing to putter around their home town until he'd tripped over the idea of becoming a coach/health teacher. Castiel had chuckled openly upon reading Rufus' letter explaining his plans because when Meg had suggested that very notion to Rufus close to the end of their senior year, (as he was the only one of their trio who hadn't yet decided where real life was going to take him), he'd shot it down with an offended harrumph followed by an emphatic, "Hell no!"

As for Meg? Well, she'd been determined – in her own words – 'to be the best damned forensic pathologist that her Uncle Alastair's money could afford.' Fortunately for her, the guy was loaded. She'd been accepted at the University of Pennsylvania which was one of the most elite schools of medicine and medical science in the world.

Uncle Alastair had gladly footed the bill because he could walk all over town bragging about his niece… the future Dr. Meg Masters… accepted into a premiere Ivy League college. The man was an utter jack-ass, but he'd been good to Meg; making him semi- acceptable in Castiel's eyes. Barely a week after graduating Meg had packed her belongings, pulled up stakes, kissed both of her best pals resoundingly on the cheek, and made her way to the East coast.

Castiel had spent that summer tying up loose ends of his own while working at Ellen's parents Roadhouse to earn the money he needed for making travel arrangements. Unlike Meg, he had no relative willing to assist him. The only snag in his dream plans of making a go of it at Oxford had been his beloved mother. She was his biggest fan and had urged him to accept the full scholarship that had fortuitously landed in his well-deserving lap.

His mother's pride had known no bounds upon receiving the heaven-sent news. She'd been thrilled that he'd be able to broaden his horizons and make something more of himself than what Lawrence had to offer. Yet, he'd hesitated because he hadn't wanted to leave her behind. Castiel had tried his damnedest to figure out a way to bring her with him. His plan had been to get them both there, and establish her in a small place of her own near the college.

He'd worked endlessly for the Harvelle's: Waiting tables, manning the kitchen grill, even cleaning the bar/restaurant, and if he'd been old enough he would've gladly tended bar. He had been enormously grateful that they'd worked him near to death although they could ill afford to pay him for all those hours. Still, it had barely borne enough fruit to get _him_ across the ocean let alone an added person.

Not to be deterred from his plan of action, he'd even gone so far as to swallow his pride and approach Alastair Masters for a loan. The older man had been hesitant, but after Castiel had divulged his rather hasty need for the cash, and reasons, he'd been much more accommodating. In point of fact, Meg's uncle had gone so far as to say that it needn't be a loan at all because really… what was a bit of spare change amongst friends?

Against Castiel's better judgment – desperation was a powerful persuader – he had agreed to accept this surprising financial gift 'amongst friends.' Then, Mr. Masters had insisted that he drop the ridiculous formality of Mr. and refer to him by his given name. It wasn't in Castiel's nature as he'd been brought up to respect his elders and treat them accordingly.

Still, in a show of gratitude, he'd broken away from this ingrained practice of politeness and had forced out a stilted, "Thank you… um… Alastair." By the cadaverous grin that the other man had bestowed upon him along with the sharp pound to his back, Castiel could only assume that he'd pleased his unofficial banker. He had then been quite taken aback at his host's next suggestion.

"I think a drink is in order." Steering Castiel into a massive study-like area, he found himself in possession of a crystal tumbler half-filled with amber liquid. "Now, what shall we toast too?" Castiel, who hadn't a clue in hell, was relieved when Alastair declared triumphantly, "I know! Let's toast our gentleman's agreement."

After several toasts of a similar nature, Castiel was beginning to feel the effects of the potent liquor. While Meg and Rufus had a tendency to party in a wild manner, he indulged in alcohol only sparingly, and generally only partook of a glass of cheap wine at dinner with his mother.

So intent had Castiel been on maintaining his balance – heaven forbid he embarrass himself in front of his new friend – that he only became aware of just how close Meg's uncle actually was when his alcohol-laden breath ghosted over his face as Alastair remarked congenially, "Meg has spoken of you often and with such affection." Winking conspiratorially, he leaned in even closer and murmured into Castiel's ear, "I've often wondered if my niece was harboring a crush."

Mr. Masters paused, then with lips that now brushed Castiel's sensitive lobe, whispered huskily, "But, I know darling Meg quite well and if she wanted you, she would have been fucking you six ways to Sunday by now." Dismayed and disturbed, Castiel had attempted to move away, but Alastair had clamped an iron hold on his arm.

"I can just imagine the two of you together. Mmm…," the older man hummed salaciously, "The powerful piston of hips and thighs grinding and thrusting furiously; greedy, grasping fingers crushing and bruising sinewy limbs and muscles. Teeth biting and nipping … _Ripping_ at all this pretty pale skin until lines of beautiful, intoxicating blood well up mixing with all that salty sweat soaking and painting your body crimson. Nails sharp and claw-like scouring, _gouging_ the slim contours of your back until it is _raw_ and ragged! Oh yes," his husky voice shook, taking on a aroused, panting quality, "I can picture it _all_ in lovely, vivid, _lurid_, detail."

Castiel's inebriated head spun in abject horror at the highly inappropriate and disgusting relaying of this voyeuristic, deviant sicko's sexual proclivities. What made it even more reprehensible was that this was Meg's uncle… _uncle_ spouting filthy, nastily descriptive scenarios of a carnal nature between him and Meg!

He was just starting to stutter out a protest at this uncalled for and highly uncomfortable topic of conversation when Meg's uncle swooped forward planting his lips right down on top of his own. The older man, taking full advantage of the younger's partially separated mouth, plunged his tongue inside, groaning and shuddering when he came into contact with Castiel's. The invading sinuous muscle glided wetly and avidly over his for a few seconds before continuing on to do a languid, extensively thorough sweep of the rest of the moist interior; hungrily lapping and slipping over the enamel of Castiel's teeth, discovering every ridge and bump existing on the roof of his mouth.

If Castiel had been a bit less drunk and a lot more in control of his faculties he might have done the sane thing and pushed the older man off of him, but since he was neither he simply froze. A mistake on his part because in the next instance he found himself being forcefully shoved backward letting out a pained grunt when he came into contact with the hard edge of a bookcase lining the wall. He was _really_ trying to assimilate just what the hell was happening, but pretty much everything other than the taste and feel of this whack job's lips and questing tongue totally eluded him. That and the lone thought screaming its way through his befuddled head… A _man_ is kissing me?!

At seventeen, Castiel hadn't much experience with kissing, although he and Meg and exchanged a few tentative trial runs. Granted, it had been more out of curiosity rather than any true hormone-driven compulsion. But, it had been quite pleasant and he would have been willing to explore it further had Meg been so inclined, but she hadn't been. So, their brief forays into the physical had been firmly put on the back burner. When Rufus had found out about their fumblings, he'd relentless teased his two best friends until Meg had grown weary of it all and had threatened his life.

Pushing himself onto his side – honestly, was there _no_ comfortable place on this Coco Chanel original – Castiel let his mind wander back to the incident with Meg's uncle. It had been appalling, and Alastair had been relentless in the devouring of his mouth and groping him in places that still made him blush. After finally regaining his senses, Castiel had shouldered his way out of the older man's grasp with a strength borne of horrified abhorrence. The naked, savage lust stamped all over the other man's face – along with the clearly defined erection straining against his trousers – had Castiel practically mindless with fear.

"Come now, Castiel," Alastair had muttered while leaning casually against the very bookcase he, himself, had just escaped from, "One doesn't get something for nothing in this world." Smiling nastily, he'd added, "You didn't _actually_ think I'd give you all that funding without a bit of compensation to ease the pain of its loss, now did you?" After seeing Castiel's expression, Alastair's let out a scornful laugh and said, "You did! How ridiculously naïve of you."

Castiel's face had heated up in a mixture of disgusted anger and acute embarrassment. "What you're suggesting is nothing short of prostitution," he'd sputtered, stupefied at the very idea. "I won't be a party to such a loathsome arrangement!"

Shrugging his thin shoulders, Alastair had commented with idle indifference, "That's a shame, my boy. I so would have enjoyed breaking you in." The manner in which the older man had eyed Castiel from head to toe had made him feel filthy and in dire need of a cleansing shower. Maybe more than one. "Be that as it may, our business here is concluded." Snatching up his almost empty tumbler, Meg's uncle had downed its contents, then said, "I'm sure you can find your way back to the door."

Castiel hadn't looked back, and while he'd regretted not being able to make the trip to England with his mother in tow, he hadn't ever regretted turning down Alastair's asinine, strings-attached 'gift.' It hadn't been long after his arrival that Daphne had approached him and changed is life for the better in so many ways.

Punching his pillow with renewed vigor, Castiel huffed out a sigh. They'd been so great together at Oxford, inseparable too. They'd been dating for almost a year when Castiel had gotten word from Rufus that his mother had fallen ill and he might want to come home because it didn't look good. Castiel had been terrified! His mother meant the world to him and the thought of losing her had spurred him into action. Daphne had been supportive of his decision, but very noticeably despondent at the idea of him going back home. Before he knew what he was doing, he was proposing and asking her to accompany him stating he'd be proud to introduce her to his mother as his future wife.

Daphne's pretty face had lit up with such excitement and love that Castiel thought his chest might burst wide open. After that, everything had happened with unnatural haste. Her family hadn't been nearly as ecstatic as the two of them had been. In fact, they'd been downright ugly and did everything in their power to dissuade his new fiancée from making the journey with him. But, Daphne being the strong-willed woman she was had prevailed.

Throwing his legs over the side of the couch, Castiel sat up groaning slightly at the ache already settling in at the base of his spine. Rubbing his face with both hands he contemplated going upstairs to the queen-sized bed he shared with Daphne. Her note didn't specify whether or not she would be coming back this evening, and since his things had been on the couch, he'd been thinking she would; now, he wasn't so sure.

It was well past 11:00 and she didn't particularly care for driving in the dark yet he still hesitated on making the move to the warmth and comfort of the blue, Egyptian cotton sheets and fluffy pillows. Perhaps a mug of tea and some late night television would help ease him into a state of relaxation and eventual sleep, but he was extremely doubtful on that score; he suspected that it was going to be one hell of a long night.

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